He’s pulling on my shirt. I’d guess that he’s about 7 or 8. He’s not speaking English, so I have no way of knowing what his “hook” is. He keeps rubbing his right eye – it looks terrible, like something exploded in it. This is my first interaction with a child of the street. I say, “No, thank you. Teşekkür. Allahaısmarladık.” and wave him away. He lets go. My friend, familiar with the holy city, tells me not to concern myself with the street kids. “They put mascara in their eyes to make you pity them,” he says. I try to believe him as I watch the little kid latch onto the next foreigner.
The young couple is sitting on the slab of tile between the northbound and southbound trains at Holborn station on the Central and Piccadily lines. There is a small dog between them. They hold a sign that reads “Hungry and homeless.” I feel silly throwing them a pound coin, more because I can’t run the exchange rate in my head just yet than because I don’t want to. But I look at the sign, at the dog, then back at the sign, then to the faces of the couple. I think, “Why on earth do you own a dog?” It’s late, and I’m trying to get back to the hotel in time to have a few drinks.
He asks me for some change to get something to eat. I’m feeling generous, so I pull about eighty cents out of my pocket and hand it to him as I exit Union Station. The snow is falling lightly, and I’m walking upriver to a bus that will take me to my friends on the North Side. As I deposit the coins in his hand and walk on by, he says, “You know, for thirty cents more I can buy a hot dog.” I stop and look back at him for a split-second before continuing on my way, thinking of all the ways I should have responded to his comment. I’m glad that I don’t speak to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them…shuffling towards me. They both look about twelve years old. They’re wearing identical, dirty windbreakers that look like hand-me-downs from the early 90s. I’m waiting for the minibus to show up so I can get back to the edge of the slums and have some proper dinner. I acknowledge the plastic bottles that they’re using to huff glue before I get a look at their faces. “A little something?” he says, motioning towards his mouth. “Mister, a little something?” I shake my head and say, “No, hapana, asante.” The minibus isn’t in view yet. They both inhale deeply on the bottles and stare, with me, across the dusty road. They’re not waiting for anything in particular.
He’s standing next to the booth at the gas station. He wears a great big coat; it’s hot out already, even this early in the morning, and I can’t understand how he isn’t boiling. Of course, he is standing in the shade of the booth. He shouts out, “Hey friend, can you spare some change?” as I fill my tank. I don’t mind this fellow. He’s a regular at the gas station near my house. I tell him that I don’t have anything – it’s not a lie. I get back in the car and I recall the two red apples in the back seat. I put them in the car three days ago and still haven’t eaten them. I take the apples over to the man and head back to the car. He thanks me. I wasn’t going to eat them anyway.
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